But there came a time when its light could no longer be hid under a bushel. “Hullo,” said the generals and others concerned with the affairs of the entrenched Army, speaking among themselves, “what about it?” They consulted the Army-that-Flies. Now the Army-that-Flies had been confronted in the early days of the war with perhaps the toughest proposition that was ever faced by mortals of even their imperturbable courage. In numerical inferiority to the enemy it had been called upon to maintain a ceaseless photographic reconnaissance far behind the enemy’s trenches; to spot for the guns of the Army along a suddenly extended front: to “keep the wind up” the Boche so that for every ten of our machines that crossed the German lines, barely one of his would dare to cross ours. This is called aerial supremacy, and they established and maintained it with fewer and worse machines than they care to talk about to-day. “Of course we know all about these naval Johnnies,” said the Army-that-Flies. “They’d steal grey paint from their dying grandmothers, and they fear nothing in the heavens above, nor the earth beneath, nor in the waters under the earth. They are complaining that things are getting a bit dull along the coast.... We might show them a thing or two if they cared to join up with us for a while.” “Let’s ask them,” said the Army. So the Navy-that-Flies was invited “to co-operate with the Royal Flying Corps on such portions of the line where its experience of escort work and offensive patrols would prove of the greatest value.” Or words to that effect. The Navy-that-Flies accepted the invitation with suppressed exultation, and detailed certain squadrons of fighters. It admits having selected picked pilots, because there was the credit of the old Navy to consider. Each squadron was entrusted to the care of a seasoned veteran of fully twenty-five summers, and of the flight leaders there was one that had even turned twenty-one. In short the Navy-that-Flies was sending of its best; and its worst was very good indeed. They flew away from the coast and the sea, and their motor transport rumbled through the empty plains of France, till they closed upon the fringe of the entrenched army. Here perched above the surrounding country on some plateau or hill-side, with the ceaseless murmur of the guns in their ears, each of the squadrons rigged its flagstaff and hoisted the White Ensign, set up the grey-painted huts and the ship’s bell that divided the day into ship-watches, slung their hammocks, and announced that they were ready to “co-operate” with anybody or anything. The Army-that-Flies laughed at the ship’s bell and the rest of the naval shibboleth, but it took the visitors to its heart. With hands deep in the pockets of its “slacks” and pipe in mouth it came over and examined the fighting machines of the Navy-that-Flies and the “doo-hickies” thereof, and it said things under its breath.